


Road House

by Alltheshrinks



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Bar fights, Gay Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26276311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltheshrinks/pseuds/Alltheshrinks
Summary: Five years ago, recently unemployed, school teacher, Jensen Ackles, returns home to his surrogate family’s Vegas strip club, amidst wrongful allegations of inappropriate behavior with a student.Now, he is lauded as one of the best in the business, hired specifically to clean up heiress, Alaina Huffman’s Kansas dive bar. One fight too many, lands him in the local ER of one Dr. Jared Padalecki, who the only thing he hates more is violence and fighting, is the hold that his newspaper mogul uncle has on the town.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Comments: 37
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me insanely happy, I love engaging with all of you. Follow me over on Twitter @tltm78

The school day has long been over, but twenty-seven-year-old Jensen Ackles, won't be able to go home until this meeting is over with. The Webster Academy's history teacher had caught senior, Brock Kelly cheating on his Civil War exam. They have a long-standing, honor code in place that has been there since the elite prep school was founded in 1917. Students caught engaging in any activities that the board deems dishonest are to be ejected from the school.

Jensen has already told his version of events, that the young man in question was in fact cheating without another way to explain the note folded up with all the answers to the quiz in his possession. Now he waits outside Superintendent Sheppard's office, while Brock and his parents talk with the board.

There's a fluorescent light that is flickering at the end of the hall, making a zip-hiss noise in the otherwise silent wing of the building. Jensen doesn't know if the flicker or the sound is worse, but he tries to ignore both. A quick glance at his wristwatch tells him they have already been in deliberation for over an hour. It puzzles him that it is taking so long, but this is the first time that he's been involved in another student breaking the honor code.

When the door finally opens, Dr. Sheppard looks almost defeated when he meets the younger man's eyes. "Mr. Ackles? Can you come in for a moment?"

Jensen nods and grabs his messenger bag. He readjusts the tie and school uniform that all students, faculty, and staff are required to wear. His blazer is slightly rumpled when he shoves his arms into the sleeves and follows the other man into the small office.

Brock is seated in between his lawyer father and socialite mother and looks almost gleeful. Jensen shakes his head; whatever the younger man is happy about, Jensen has no clue. Being expelled and having the incident on his school transcript, pretty much ruins the young man's chances of getting into an Ivy League College.

Sheppard closes the door behind him and gestures to the other empty seat in front of his desk, which Jensen takes without question. The aging, Brit looks at him and then takes his own seat.

"Mr. Ackles, Mr. Kelly has brought up serious charges against you." Is not the sentence that he is expecting and the teacher looks a little shell shocked before pulling himself together.

"Me? He...heck have I done?" His confusion only intensifies when one of the other board members seated against the wall hands him a photograph. It's not terribly recent, but it depicts Jensen holding hands with Scott, one of his former boyfriends.

"I don't understand, Mr. Lehne. What does my ex have to do with the situation at hand?" Jensen is genuinely puzzled.

The other man studies his face, "So you admit this? That you're gay?"

Jensen taps down the extreme rage that is burning inside of his stomach at the statement, "I don't see how that's relevant. I'm gay, not a pedophile."

Sheppard sighs. "Jensen...Mr. Ackles...Mr. Kelly has informed us of some rather inappropriate behavior." The other man looks almost ill, the words slipping out in his polished accent.

Jensen snaps his neck around to look at the adolescent male in question. Brock is still smiling like the Cheshire Cat and Jensen feels the walls of his stomach constrict, threatening to expel all of their contents on the cheap, indoor/outdoor carpeting of the room. Jensen hasn't been prone to anxiety attacks in years, yoga and breathing exercises have pretty much trained that out of him; but right in this instance, Jensen thinks he is on the cusp of a full-blown, panic-induced, tossing off his cookies.

Brock is a pretty boy, that much is true, but he is so far out of what Jensen considers his type that it is not funny. Even if it wasn't, Jensen would never act inappropriately to one of his students. He has to lead a life of fighting bullies and predators, not becoming one.

Jensen steadies his breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth, until the tightness in his chest and black spots on the edges of his vision clear. Instead of calming him, though, the implications of what the youth is suggesting are just making him angrier and he wants to punch his pretty teeth down his throat.

"Why you..."Jensen loses his battle with his restraint, something that hasn't happened in years. Not since Amarillo and launches himself out of his seat. He is almost to the juvenile before Mark Pellegrino, the school counselor steps in."I've never said a word to anyone here that was inappropriate, that little shit..." Mark grabs him around the waist and yanks him back.

Mark is much bigger than Jensen is, he stands at least two inches above him and his bone structure is so much more substantial than the history teacher. Plus, Mark is an experienced kick-boxer; but Jensen knows that if push comes to shove, he can probably take the other man.

"Jensen, calm down," Mark says quietly into his ear. He wraps his arms up over Jensen's shoulders and Jensen recognizes the move almost instantly. It is used to restrain opponents without hurting them and it grounds him. "Stop fighting me. He's a minor."

Jensen finally lets all of the fights drains out of his body and the taller man lets him go. All the years of fighting tooth and nail to never wonder where his next meal is coming from or where he is going to sleep next to are about to go down the drain with the little prick who just didn't want to crack open his history books. He jerks away from the bigger man's hold and straightens his tie, counting to twenty, because ten is just not going to cut it.

Once he's seated back in his chair, Mr. Kelly, senior, starts to speak. "Mr. Ackles, please know that this is nothing personal, but I can't have you messing up my son's future."

"His future? So you fuck up mine. Let me ask you something? What happens when your checkbook can't get your son out trouble?" He's bitter, of course, he is.

The man's smile is sinister, the perfect white veneers, and the large quantities of botox make the otherwise handsome man look like a mannequin on display at Nordstrom's. The man himself, looks just as empty and unfeeling as those life-sized Ken dolls, dressed in all of their suburban fineries. Jensen wants to puke on his thousand dollar, Italian leather loafers.

*******

An hour later, he's still in Sheppard's office. Both Marks have filled their own tumblers and one for Jensen with bourbon from the Superintendent's drawer. It is his emergency stash, because being the head of a prestigious, all-boys prep school is more times than not, challenging; and this is an emergency if the man has ever experienced one.

The Kellys agreed to not press charges, but Jensen could never again teach. Part of the conditions was that Jensen would not seek employment in or around a school. Which is literally all he knows.

"Can't you do anything?" Jensen asks for the fiftieth time this hour. He has never caused one second of trouble for this institution and that has to count for something. Just because they live in a Republican Controlled part of the state and that Fred Lehne is a homophobic, probably self-hating and closeted himself if Jensen thinks about it, raging douche nozzle, means Jensen is shit out of luck.

"My hands are tied. You are actually lucky that this is not much worse. You go poking the bear, you'll end up on a sex offenders' list and ostracized from society. Besides, it's not like they shattered any grand dreams you had of being Robin Williams." Mark takes a slow, easy swallow of the smooth liquid, ice cubes clanking against the plastic of the glass. He genuinely seems like he would like to help the younger man if he could.

All Jensen can ever remember wanting, was to be a teacher. After he came out to his parents and was all but disowned, he put everything into getting his degree and never having to rely on anyone else. He spent years of his formative years learning to fight and living off of the charity and hand-offs of those who took pity on him or wanted to use him. Now, he has to start all over and he isn't sure that he can.

Even though the young teacher knows that it is futile, he pleads his case again, "But you know me. You both do. I'm not a sexual predator because I sleep with men. I said 'men' because I don't hit on boys or children. Trust me, twinks are not my type." He drinks out of his own cup, letting it burn all the way down to his soul.

Mark Pellegrino has been silent so far, but he finally clears his throat and holds his glass up. "To Jensen's early, albeit forced, retirement."

Jensen can't help but laugh. It actually feels good to let the chuckles rumble out of his throat and shake his chest. He and the counselor have never been best friends, but they have hung out on occasion. "Fuck you, Pellegrino!" But it's conveyed without any hostility from the younger man.

"So what are you going to do?" The British Mark asks, swirling the amber-colored liquid around in his glass, eyes meeting Jensen in nothing but sympathy. He really has been good to Jensen over the years, like he is with all of the faculty here.

"Not a fucking clue. I can't go home, but I can't stay in this shithole either without a job." Jensen feels like crying, but even worse, he's angry. It is a deep-seated and simmering fury that is smoldering in the core of his very being.At Brock, at his parents, hell, he's even mad at himself; but mostly, he is upset at a society that still treats gay men like hardened criminals, just for being attracted to the same sex.

*******

Jensen is beyond drunk when he stumbles off the school, his tie askew as he pulls off his blazer and shoves it in the trash can that is outside the door. He won't be need that stuffy, confining garment ever again and takes great satisfaction at depositing it with all of the other trash inside the bin.He hopes that someone who needs it can dig it out, but the white breed, and elitist dicks that run this place, would probably torch their garbage than let someone take it.

It's still uncharacteristically warm for this time of the year as he staggers down the sidewalk towards his overpriced and under the furnished apartment. The rains came earlier in the spring and now a heat-wave, slash drought is wreaking havoc on the usual temperatures.

The night air does absolutely nothing to cool him down as he makes his track down the road of the deserted part of town. The only sound is the clicking of his leather dress shoes against the unforgiving asphalt and cement. If Jensen were less worldly, he might be leery of being this drunk and out alone. Being caught unawares had been a huge burden in his younger days, but this is a very nice part of the city. Not to mention that Jensen is hardly a helpless welp, even as intoxicated as he is.

By the time he climbs the steps to his building and opens the deadbolt to his apartment, he's much clearer-headed and has somewhat of a game plan. He takes in the dwelling, though it was comfortable, it was never what Jensen would call the lap of luxury. He was clean, and safe, which in his experience is extremely underrated; but he had not been happy in years. If he is being completely candid, he isn't sure what happy looks like.

The young educator, well, the former one, stops the current thought process before he allows himself to feel sorry for him. No one ever pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and made the best out of an unfortunate situation, by letting themselves sink in self-pity and depression. Jensen will be fine. The next few months might suck, but he has overcome much worse. Feeling much better about his dire straights, the unemployed, but slightly sober man fetches a beer from the fridge and sits on one end of the bar before pulling out his phone.

Jensen opens the screen with a swipe of his thumb, letting the brightness of the screen shine in his face in the poorly illuminated kitchen while he uncaps the domestic beer cap open. Jensen has drunk a lot of beer in his day, microbrews, and imports from all over; but nothing beats a good, icy-cold Corona. Insert the requisite line about taking the boy out of Texas and all other anecdotes that apply.

He knows the number by heart, it is one of those holdovers from before cell phones. It is one of a few things that he has never let himself forget, he is, however, too lazy to dial it, opting instead to scroll through his contacts and hits send.

The phone connects almost instantly, there is a sudden click letting him know that it is being bounced off of satellites and cell towers between him and Nevada. There is only a moment's lag and then it begins ringing into his ear. It rings four times, the unchanging quality of the sound a comfort; some things never change.Someone picks up right before the fifth ring and Jensen sighs out in relief.

It's loud on the other end of the line, the commotion and rock music being picked up over the microphone, when he hears a familiar, feminine voice say, "Tattletales."

"Sam, is Jeff around?" Jensen doesn't waste time on pleasantries, hoping that the other woman will not take offense.The line on the other end is quiet, and if not for the catcalls and music, Jensen would have thought that she hung up, "Sam, it's Jensen, I need to talk to Jeff."

"Jensen?" She repeats into his ear, "Are you okay? You sound terrible." Jensen inhales slowly, he doesn't know why he thought he could slip anything past the formative woman.

"I'm fine, I just need to talk to Jeff." His voice is a little steadier this time and much louder. He isn't going to have this standoff over the phone and refuses to elaborate.

It takes a moment, the woman no doubt trying to determine the severity of the call, but finally she caves. "Yo, J.D., phone!" She screams in the background. "Its Jensen."

It takes a few seconds, but a man finally comes on the line, "Jensen, kiddo. How are you doing?" There are so many unspoken questions in that single sentence and Jensen hears everyone.

Instead of replying to the unvoiced askance, though, he just sticks to the basics, "I'm good, I just need a favor."

There is a slight pause, "Oh, hell. What kind of trouble are you in?" Jensen knows without seeing the man's expression that he's stroking his face and tilting back against the bar. "Hold on a second."

The music and cheers fade away and he knows that means that Jeff has stepped into the office. "Tell me what happened." The older man's voice is whiskey smooth and smoke roughed.

"I'm not in any trouble, not really, I just need a place to crash." Jensen hates lying to Jeff, the man is almost like a father to him since he was 15 and caught Jensen trying to steal out of a bar's dumpster in Amarillo. A bar that Jeff was a bouncer at.

There is over a decade of history between these two men and Jensen knows that Jeff will not judge him. He never has, not when he found out that he was gay or the homelessness that it had caused, or when he found out that Jensen wanted to go to college.

"Mmhmm," Jeff doesn't sound convinced and adds, "You know you are always welcome here." Of course, the man that is the closest thing to a father that Jensen has had in years was not going to turn him down.

Jensen breathes out a breath he didn't know he was holding in and smiles, "Thanks, man." The relief is immense, Jensen wonders if Jeff will ever know how much his unconditional love means to him. He vows to tell him, though not in so many words, Jensen is gay, but Jeff doesn't do chick flick moments.

"So when can I expect you?" The older man sounds somewhat amused at the situation, knowing that Jensen hates flying. Which is one of the reasons that Jensen visits so little?

"I'm leaving in the morning, so say... day after? By Friday?" Jensen sounds a hundred times better than he did just a second ago. The knowledge that he has a place to stay and probably a job settles his nerves in ways that he had all but forgotten.

"Alright, be careful. Make sure you're sober when you set out." The older man's voice takes on a fatherly tone that Jensen knows well, but doesn't get to hear too often these days.

"Okay," the younger man chuckles, he forgot how easy it is with Jeff. He doesn't know why he was even worried about it

*******

The bar has shut down for the night and Samantha Smith is counting out the evening till when Jeffrey Dean Morgan comes into the office. Tonight was a good night, they were busy and no one got out of hand, which doesn't happen as much as the head of security would like. Alcohol and naked bodies are always catalysts for discord.

Sam doesn't look up as she enters numbers into the laptop. Fingers fly over the keyboard as her blond curls fall out of her hair clip and onto her forehead. "What did Jensen want?"

Jeff rubs his face, "Just said he needed a place to crash for a while." Jeff knows that Sam is feigning disinterest, so he's going to make her ask. She likes the power imbalance that their relationship teeters on, Jeff does not.

A pregnant pause hangs in the air as Sam loses control of the conversation in lieu of curiosity and concern, "What kind of trouble is he in?" She finally looks up, her expression neutral.

Jeff smiles, knowing he won this round, "He said he wasn't, but you know our boy."

"I know him, too well," Sam says, pushing her hair out of her face, blonde curls revealing the stunning woman that Jeff has known for at least two decades.

"He's a grown-up, you know?" Jeff laughs because even he doesn't believe the man in question isn't in some kind of trouble. Whether he goes looking or not, trouble in one form or the other always finds Jensen Ackles.

Sam finally smiles fondly and says, "When can we expect our little lost sheep?"

"Day after tomorrow, give or take." Jeff smiles wider at Sam, the implied joke settling comfortably between the duo and the owner rolls her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The Vegas skyline hasn't changed a bit, when Jensen finally guides his cherry red, 1969 Ford Mustang into the city of lights and sin. Its been at least three years since he last set foot in the place that had become his home more than Texas ever was. 

Tattletales is no longer the dive strip club where the dancers and patrons practically raised him; the faded and worn out sign has been replaced by modern and classy decor. The flashing Girls, Girls, Girls marquee and all the other antique adornments that the establishment used to sport have been removed and now it looks every bit the place worthy of Samantha Smith's name on the deed.

Sam, for all of her beauty and class, was a retired stripper and escort, who hitchhiked to Nevada at the age of fifteen and never looked back. She was really more of his mother than his own had ever been.

The lady in question, is dressed in a white business suit, her curls loose and still wild and beautiful. Large tortoiseshell sunglasses safeguard her crystal blue eyes from the sweltering desert sun that is giving out its last rays. She looks so out of place and yet so at home that Jensen almost thinks she's a mirage, as he parks the car and gets out.

Sam takes in how much larger he seems, broad shoulders and hair meticulously gelled, the black button down shirt rolled up across his impressive forearms and jeans that fit like a second skin. There is at least three days worth of stubble across the chiseled jawline that is no longer pretty, but just as ruggedly beautiful as he always was.

He's almost to the bottom step of the porch to the club, when she can't take it anymore and laughs out loud, the sound is music to his hears as he covers the last two steps in one remarkable stride and swoops her up like a small child.

After swinging her around at least three times, inspite of her token protests, he sets the older woman down and she speaks for the first time. "Look at you, oh my god, I swear you get prettier every year. All of my girls are going to eat you up, or else be jealous, you truly are the prettiest one in this establishment."

Jensen returns the laugh and blushes, Sam always did know how to embarrass him. "I doubt that," he answers and removes the costly aviators covering the greenest set of eyes on the west coast. "I bet you still show all of them up," Jensen bends down to kiss her cheek and properly hug her.

"Flatterer," Is Sam's rejoinder, as she removes her own shades and gestures towards the entrance. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink and get a proper look at you. Jeff is on a run at the moment and the club hasn't officially opened yet, so we have some time.

Jensen opens the heavy door, the air conditioning hitting him like a frieght train as he allows Sam to enter the building aheadof him.It takes a minute for his eyes to adapt to the lower light, but by the time he reaches the bar and sits on a barstool, he's able to take in the interior of the place and how different it is.

The worn out, wooden dance floor and contained stripper poles have been replaced by sleek and elegant glass and metal surfaces; expensive, abstract artwork hangs from the walls, the busted and raggedy chairs and bar stools that once littered the place have given way too bright, cushioned pleather benches andlove seats. The place really has changed.

Jensen lets out a low whistle in appreciation as Sam pours a couple of fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue into two low ball glasses, shoving one closer to his side of the bar. "The place looks amazing," Jensen offers with genuine awe in his voice as he takes a measured sip of the smooth liquid inside his glass.

"Mmmm, thank you," Sam looks around the place as if shes seeing it for the first time and then her eyes settle on the boy, no, he's a man now, that much is evident, across from her. "How much trouble are you in?" Sam never was one to mince words.

Jensen nearly chokes on the sip he was taking, coughs and sputters before clearing his throat. His green eyes comically wide, with a faux air of innocence to them. "You wound me, Sam." Covering his heart with one large hand to emphasize his point.

Sam's face loses the happy-go-lucky expression that was there just seconds ago and then she leans on the bar and touches his arm. "Jensen, I love you like a son, I do. You always have a home here, you know that. But if you are in some kind of trouble, J.D. and I need to know."

Jensen sighs, leave it to Sam to see past his facade, of just his heart strings tugging for him to come home. "I'm not in any trouble that will follow me. I wouldn't do that to you and Jeff." She searches his face and lets it go with a nod.

"Now, tell me about California." And just like that, Jensen is seventeen-years-old again and telling her about how much he wants to travel the world and study everything and learn about everything.

They are so immersed in the laughter and chatter that neither notices when Jeff glides onto the barstool and elbows the younger man. "Sorry, we are closed," his voice is coarse and demanding and then he jerks Jensen in a headlock that turns into a wrestling contest that ends with them on the floor.

"You're sloppy," Jeff cackles as he pins Jensen's arm behind his back with another move. For someone who has well over a decade on him, the senior man is still rough and tumble; his arms have lost none of their powerful size or agility.

"I'm not a bouncer anymore," Jensen's noticeable distress bleeding into his timbre while he tries to wiggle his way out of the hold. The younger of the pair knows that Jeff would never hurt him, but making him extremely uncomfortable is another story. He tries to squirm out of the hold with very limited success.

Jeff compresses his grip, sitting flat down on the younger mans back, "Well, you kind of are." He adds just enough pressure to Jensen's arm to be aggravating, but not to cause any trauma.

The stress of the move is starting to cramp up Jensen's upper back and he throws in the proverbial white flag, "Uncle," the younger man chokes out and Jeff finally releases his hold and assists Jensen to his feet. Jensen rubs the circulation back into his arm before getting barraged again, this time by Jeff's strong arms enclosing him into a back-slapping hug.

"How are you, Mijo?" Jeff says, letting the nickname out and pinching Jensen's cheeks in his hands and planting a sloppy, soggy kiss on his face. "You look good," Jeff adds, slapping his face gently with his palms.

"And you got old," the younger of the pair just does dodge a swipe from his surrogate father before he allows the other man to fling his arm around his shoulders. Jensen takes in the extra wrinkles and white in Jeff's hair that wasn't there the last time they were in the same room.

Sam is staring at the pair fondly and when Jeff catches her eye, he winks, "What did I tell you, Sam? Our boy finally outgrew some of that pretty."

"Outgrew it? J.D., how many times I had I told you to get your eyes checked? He's prettier now than he ever was. Some of the girls are going to be upset when they see him." Sam smiles at Jensen and he wonders if these two are still dancing around each other like kids on a playground. Neither one wanting to give in and just admit they are head over heels.

"You're just saying that because he looks like a man now," Jeff is teasing and Jensen knows that, but he has never been okay with anyone questioning his masculinity. It was bad enough to be gay, but to be gay and look feminine? It was a huge hinderance in this line of work.

"Screw you, old man. You're just mad because you're ugly." Jensen hides his blush and wide smile behind the rim of his glass.

"All right," Sam interjects, swiping the bar rag at both of the men, "We open in about an hour and this place will be packed. Jensen you are welcomed to grab a rag or head back to the house to get some sleep.

Sam owns a bed and breakfast on the outskirts of town, where she always has a spare room or two for her employees if they need a safe place to crash. Its where Jeff took a sixteen-year-old Jensen after he gotten into a fight with a group of homophobic assholes back in Texas. They had left town in the middle of the night with barely the clothes on their backs.

Jensen had not been expecting the warm welcome he had received from the woman, nor from the men and women who worked for her. The other bouncers and performers had taken to him like he had always been around.

Jensen picks up a rag and starts wiping down the counter top that looks spotless already, "I think I'll stay for awhile if you don't mind. I doubt I could sleep and I need a distraction." He doesn't miss the look that passes between the other two, but at least they aren't asking questions.

*******

Five Years later

Jensen pushes the door to the Ace In The Hole Bar's side entrance, the one reserved for the employees and surveys the room. Nothing seems out of place, the music is loud and the patrons are either drunk or well on their way. He's been working as the bars cooler, ever since Sam bought the place four years ago and decided to turn it into a respectable establishment.

It had taken some muscle, blood and sweat, but it was finally a nice place with less seedy clientele. Jensen liked the bands that played cover songs and the dance floor better than the naked females that he had to protect in the strip club across town. There was always some asshole who thought that being a stripper was an automatic yes and that was not the case. It seemed as though certain men never learned.

The only problem with the Ace was that every few months, some overgrown, Neanderthal would hear that Jensen was gay and decide to challenge his authority. It never ended well, especially for his opponents. Jensen was tall, standing a sturdy six feet and one inch, had broad shoulders and massive arms, but he was on the small side for what passed in this town as security.

Still, he could handle himself and hadn't lost a brawl yet, though the scars that he now sported were like a road map to a life that he thought he had left behind. Occasionally, he missed teaching, but mostly he was just weary of the night life. Of waking past noon to exercise and then arrive at the bar by six. Then crawling into bed past four am, when everyone had been cleared out of the building and the waitresses escorted out to their cars. Jensen was usually the last one to leave the premises.

Tonight was going to be a long one, as he noticed one the local girls, Charlene, who had a bit of a reputation was well on her way to be being plastered. Her on-again, off-again boyfriend and she would fight, and she would inevitably hook up with some dumb ass, all for Randy (the douchebag boyfriend) to come in and start a ruckus. Jensen couldn't ban them from the establishment, because they both spent a lot of money in the place. Plus Sam has a rule about banning women from her clubs, whatever is happening is not Jensen's business. He is not a knight in shining armor who has to save the whole strip.

Just like clockwork, a tall and not very bright-looking guy who has been knocking back Jager, strides over to to the table that the drunk girl is parked in. She and her friends, who though are less attractive than the lady in question are just as much to blame for instigating whatever trouble that generally transpires. Jensen just thinks that they both have too much time on their hands. The other girls look over the newcomer like a lion looks over a gazelle and they part to let him sit at the table.Jensen rolls his eyes.

"How long do you think that will take to blow up?" Jensen hears from behind him, he turns to see his second in command, the tremendously muscular and powerful-looking Christopher Judge leaning against the bar. He has a high ball glass filled with seltzer water and lime in his hand.

Jensen leans against the wood of the bar and crosses his impressive forearms over his body, "Not long enough, if you ask me," scanning the rest of the room.

He notices the red-head making her way through the throng of people before she takes a seat at the bar. Her expensive Louis Vuittons and Prada skirt sticks out like a sore thumb in this place. At least his time teaching some of the richest kids on the West Coast had taught him a thing or two, he can spot a knock Gucci jacket a mile away, and she has on the real deal.That is half of his monthly salary folded up in her arm.

She is eyeing him out of the corner of her eye, which he notices immediately. Taking tentative sips of her drink and not bothering with subterfuge.

He only has a moment to think about the well put together lady, who is sipping on some top shelf bourbon, neat. She is barking up the wrong tree, because Jensen is so very, very gay. He is also working, which means even if he wasn't, it is out of the question. Jensen doesn't date customers. It is a hard and fast rule from his younger days at Tattletales.

"God dammit, Charlene," he hears slurred out over the music, from the direction of their resident trouble maker and her posse. Jensen stands up straight and cranes his neck over the crowd of drinkers. Jensen sees his bouncers already taking an interest in the disruption. His attention is more curiosity, than genuine apprehension, just wanting to see how this going to play out.

The good-ole boy who had just sat at the table, moments before, draws back and slaps Charlene across the face with his open palm and Chris moves in quickly to quell another strike, by grabbing ahold of the other man's fist. It happens so quickly that Jensen is extremely impressed by his team and continues to watch, mildly interested in the engagement until the other man head butts the considerable-sized bouncer, the crunch from the his nose a sickening crack, even over the band.

James and Eric, another two of the night club’s tremendously-sized employees have already descended on the other man and picked him up off the ground. "Put me down, you cocksuckers," which Jensen just raises an eyebrow at.He is the only guy on the payroll that is into fellating other men, but his men can get pretty ugly about homophobes.

Chris is holding his nose, while Eric restrains the problematic customer. "I wasn't doing anything wrong, that slut..."

That is enough, Jensen hates homophobes with everything in him, but men who go around calling strangers that they just met in bars, especially of the female persuasion, ”sluts” really raise his hackles. He supposes all of that time that he spent over at Tattletales, really did bring of the feminist in him.

He approaches the struggling man, who is still trying to fight two of the best bouncers in the city, tooth and nail, "I think it is time for you to leave," he says it cooly, his voice never waivering. It is one of the first rules about being a cooler that Jensen ever learned from Jeff. You don't get mad and you don't stoop to their level.

The guy stops struggling and seems to calm down considerably, "I'm sorry," he breathes out, "I was just having a little fun, won't happen again."

Jensen nods at Eric and gestures towards the door, no one gets a second chance in the club after they have drawn his attention. Their no tolerance policy is another thing that Jensen learned from Jeff.

Jensen is turning to walk away, when the man slips out of Eric's loose hold and grabs a knife from the bar top, where Milton, the bartender had just been slicing lemons for tequila shots.

Jensen feels the serrated metal, covered in the acidic juices of the citrus fruit, rip through his cotton shirt and the top part of his deltoid muscle. It burns like a son of a bitch, but he doesn't let himself lose his composure.

Steve has already moved into the melee and puts himself in between Jensen and the patron. "I think I can take you. You aren't that big." He hears the lanky man drawl out, in a Tennessee or Alabama accent, he isn't sure which. Jensen taps Steve on the shoulder, getting the other man to move. Jensen is not hurt that badly.

"Outside," is all he says, turning to part the mob of people who have gathered to watch the precedings take place. Jensen never breaks his stride, pushing the double doors of the establishment free and stepping out into the dry desert night.

The four bouncers all but frog march the agitator out of the building, watching to see what their boss's play is.

The guy moves around Jensen and further out of entrance way, before turning around, "All right, hotshot," his voice still slurred from the alcohol. "Let's go," he gestures in the universal, come on motion, beckoning Jensen closer.

Jensen just smirks at him and turns on his heel and heads back inside. Six of his men close ranks, not letting the provoker back into the building. "Come on, you cocksucker!" he can hear the man screaming at him as the doors close. Jensen wonders why people consider that a barb.

Chris looks pissed, but is otherwise still in control of the crowd, so Jensen walks behind the bar and down the hallway to the office. He closes out the music and rips his shirt over his head, inspecting the wound that is gaping where his shoulder meets his arm. He pulls out the suture kit from the first aid kit and threads the needle with the synthetic twine. A quick glance in the mirror, tells him that it will probably only need a couple of stitches.

After pouring half of a bottle of alcohol over the area, and waiting for the burn to cease, he slips he curved needle into the torn meat of his arm and hisses out a breath, before pulling the stitch closed and moving on to the next.

The door opens and then he is faced with the red-head from before, who takes in his impressive torso reflected in the mirror and raises her eyebrows at him in the reflective surfaces of the glass. He ignores her dazzled glare, her blood-red lips pulling up in a predatory grimace. On anyone else, and Jensen would think it was a smile.

"I'm Alaina Huffman," She hands him a business card after he ties off the last stitch and pours the rest of the bottle of ethanol over the area.

"I'm gay," he says, grabbing a clean shirt off the coat rack and slipping it over his head.

Alaina laughs, it is loud and rich, all of her white teeth showing as she tosses her head back, "So am I," she lets out another series of chortles and then wipes underneath her eyes, where her mascara has run from the moisture. "I own this little night club in Kansas. It used to be this sweet set up, but now they sweep eyeballs off the floor at closing time."

Jensen chuckles along with her, he has to admit that the way she was eyeballing him was a little suspicious, but now that all of the cards are on the table and she is still standing here, he is intrigued. He gestures for her to continue.

"I just recently aquired the place and I would like to make a go at making it a lucrative business venture, but I need a little help," she sits down on the desk in the room. "But I need some help cleaning it up. I need the best."

"Jeff Morgan is the best," Jensen is more than okay with that fact being put out there.

"JD is getting old," Alaina says, she isn't being spiteful, she is just stating facts.

"He is still the best," Jensen answers. Jeff could be one hundred and three and still would be the best in his book. He is the one who taught him everything he knows about the business and how to train away that temper and control all of that misplaced rage.

"I want you," she states, not beating around the bush, just letting her frosty blue gaze cut into his, holding the look, challenging him to break contact first.

Jensen doesn't give in, he just stares back, trying to decide on if he can leave the club for a few months, make some quick bank. Maybe buy that little plot of land that he has his eye on.

"Ten grand, up front," he purses his lips, aiming high. She doesn't even blink, "a grand a night. I call all of the shots." he waits for her to intervene, when she doesn't, he adds, "When the job is over, I walk. And you pay all medical expenses."

"Done," she immediately answers. "I've got your plane ticket right here," she pulls a multicolored, glossy piece of paper out of her bag.

Jensen looks at the document, a little impressed by how much faith she has in her own ability to persuade him to take the job. "I don't fly," he smiles at his own smugness, "It's too dangerous."

For the first time since the ginger walked into the establishment, she looks a little unsure of her reasons for being here. "Then how...?"

"I will get there," Jensen assures her, before he walks out of the room and opens up his cell phone to call Jeff.


	3. Chapter 3

Jensen heaves his duffle bag into the backseat of his ‘86 Cutlass Supreme, with the dull blue, oxidized paint job, the doors squeaking slightly with disuse or too little oil.He is just getting ready to start the engine, the sun is creeping over the horizon and Vegas, with all its resplendence, is lit with a different type of glow.

“Mijo?” Jeff’s voice is harsh, probably from the cigarettes and the late-night he had last night. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

Jensen steps back out into the pleasant daybreak, the only time that it is less than sweltering in the desert is in the well after midnight hours, where the cloudless skies can no longer trap the heat and humidity, making the temperatures somewhat bearable.

“Jeff? I’m only leaving for a few weeks, I’ll be back before you know it.” Regardless of his reassurances, Jensen still steps into the older man’s space, wrapping his arms around Jeff’s broad, muscled physique. 

“Heard that before,” Jeff says pulling the other man into his embrace, letting Jensen breathe in the scent of menthol cigarettes and Preferred Stock aftershave, still clinging to and mixing with Jeff’s normally musky scent. The hug only lasts a few seconds and then Jeff is shoving at Jensen’s biceps, holding him at arm’s length, letting his assessing gaze sweep up and down his surrogate son’s frame.

“Remember what I taught you, huh?” Jeff lets one closed fist gently nudge the younger man’s chin, grazing it in the pantomiming of a right hook, it is more affectionate than it should be and Jensen feels the somber mood of the other man sizzling in the early dawn hours.

Before he can even process what has transpired, Jeff lightly pats his cheek, standing close enough that Jensen can see the different shades of chocolate in the other man’s warm eyes. He doesn’t know how to respond but nods his head in agreement. “Stay calm, never fight when you’re mad and make sure they are 18,” Jensen tosses that last qualifier in to lighten the mood and Jeff laughs before pulling away.

“You’ll be fine, call me,” Jeff uses his pinky and thumb to his ear, the accepted gesture for a telephone and Jensen knows that the moment is over. 

“Will do,” Jensen says and opens the car door again, sliding into the plush interior of the automobile and putting the Ace in his rearview mirror.

The city never sleeps, that much is true, but as Jensen gets farther away from the strip and the bustle of the business district of the place, it is much quieter. People with nine to five, who are tucked away from the neon glow of the casinos and sin are still slumbering and it's a peacefulness that Jensen craves.

His trek across town is quick, not hindered by the congestion of traffic at this hour and a lone man is sitting on a park bench when Jensen pulls up to the gate of the storage unit. The older man has long, unkempt hair and a walking stick nestled up against his side. Jensen nods and the movement is reciprocated as he ducks into the labyrinth of buildings behind the fenced-in area.

After unlocking the door to the building, and raising the huge garage door, he walks around the only thing in the space. He circles around and tugs at the dust cover that is blanketing the object.The covering slips off the metal, as the cherry red finish of his beloved Mustang shines like a beacon.

He slides against the familiar leather seats and turns the key into the ignition, hearing all eight cylinders roar to life like a slumbering dragon just awakened from a long sleep. The throaty growl is comfortable and soothing to his whole body as he thumps the steering wheel. Man, it is good to be in this car.

He steers the vehicle towards the gate, only stopping to acknowledge the bum who he saw on the way in, flinging him the keys to the Oldsmobile still parked at the curb. The man catches the stamped out steel with reflexes that amaze Jensen, his eyes wide as saucers. “Keep her,” Jensen urges as he eases off the brakes and pulls out onto the pavement, the rumble of a set of Flow Master exhausts echoing off the storefronts of the businesses lining the avenue.

Jensen slides on his aviators, gets comfortable in the front seat, and guides the car east; in minutes he is on the open road, Bob Seger cranked up loud and the wind in his hair. He needed a vacation. He then shakes his head at considering cleaning up a seedy bar of its less than couth clientele, a vacation, but that is how his life is these days.

*******

Jensen drives straight through, only stopping to relieve himself or to get more coffee and road snacks, the freeway calling to him like a siren song. It still takes him eighteen hours to find the location, just outside of Kansas City, Kansas. He pulls into the parking lot of the dive, that’s the only way to describe the place, at just after midnight; even on a weekday, the place is still hopping with a raucous crowd.

He walks through the double doors, immediately absorbed in the band playing a cover song from Foreigner, while the aroma of alcohol and sweat assaults his olfactory nerves. The band is on stage and separated from their audience by chicken wire and a chain-link fence, letting Jensen know all he needs to know about the place. The band is nice, probably too good for the likes of this place, the lead singer with his wavy, light brown hair and thin facial hair has a gentle voice and Jensen is glad to see that Rob Benedict is still playing; he is also said that this is still the type of place that Rob is working. 

He catches sight of a familiar shock of auburn hair before Alaina waves him over to her. He walks over the prone body of someone passed out, he hopes, on the floor and up the small staircase leading him into what he assumes is the office of the place.

Once the door is closed, Alaina motions for him to have a seat, the music can still be heard, though it is muffled and the tinted glass of the windows blocks out some of the lights from the bar. He plops down in a worn-out armchair, while Alaina takes a seat behind the mahogany desk. The office is the classiest place in the joint.

“Any trouble finding the place?” She fills a glass up from a decanter on the cabinet behind her and then holds it up for him. Jensen shakes his head no, he doesn’t drink on the job.

“No, I found it. You weren’t kidding about needing some help, were you?” He looks over his shoulder out at the dance floor and sees two, what he assumes are bouncers dragging a couple of guys out the doors of the establishment and smirks. “I take it that’s bulletproof glass?” As soon as the words leave his mouth there is a hard crack, that rocks the whole room, a liquor bottle crashing against the surface and shattering on impact.

Alaina winces, but doesn’t react otherwise, except to grimace and say, “Yeah, that was the first improvement I made.”

“Smart,” Jensen approves, turning back around in his seat to face her. “So tomorrow? I’ll show up in time for you to introduce me to your staff and we will go from there. Sound good?”

The ginger smiles at him, a sincere smile, not one of those predator smiles that he is used to from the woman and she nods. “Sounds good to me, I can round a few of them up right now if you want.”

Jensen considers her thoughtfully, “I’d rather they not know I’m watching tonight if you know what I mean?”

Alaina nods and gestures back out towards the bar area, where the crowd has now grown to what he is sure is maximum fire capacity. Jensen takes that as his signal and departs the office, back down the steps and out of sight of most of the patrons.

To say that this place could use some help is the biggest understatement of the century, the clientele and the personnel both leave something to be desired. The first thing that catches his eyes is one of the waitresses, a tiny, blonde slip of a girl who is leaning over a table a few feet from him. She is laughing along with the customer and he slips her some money that she tucks into her apron. Then she glances around for anyone who might be observing her, before heading directly back to the rear of the establishment where the restrooms are. A couple of beats pass and the customer gets up from the table and heads in the same direction.

Jensen then moves along the back wall to where another waitress, this one a tall brunette, with at least a dozen piercings in her ears and face, tucks money in her back pocket before sliding what Jensen assumes is some kind of narcotics across the table, discretely, or what he assumes passes for discretion. 

He makes his way around the dance floor, Rob and the boys playing a slower, power ballad, couples intertwined and swaying along to the music. He slips on to a bar stool in the corner of the bar by the wall and sees a couple of the bartenders mixing drinks before one notices him. The tall, red-head, with hair a little darker than Alaina’s, slides up to him, she’s pretty, that’s the first thing he notices.

She is either good at the whole customer service schtick or she likes the looks of him because she paints on a large smile and says, “What can I get you, cowboy?”

Jensen smirks at the nickname, not the first time he has been referred to as cowboy, but it is the first time it has happened before he has opened his mouth. Most of his accent has faded over the years, Vegas and California being less tolerant of southerners, but it does still slip out occasionally. “Just a coke, please.”

The bartender raises her eyebrows, assessing him, then just nods and gets a glass from behind the bar and filling it with the hose that controls their carbonated beverages. She sets down a napkin and places the glass in front of her. “Here you are, just a coke,” she nods and leans over the bar, “If you need anything else, let me know.”

Jensen takes a sip, not bothering to look down at her v-neck shirt and what he is sure is a magnificent view of her cleavage, and nods back, keeping eye contact. Jensen doesn’t judge other people for the things they have to do to make ends meet. That extends to strippers and bartenders who have to flirt for tips.“Sure thing,” he says, setting his glass back down on the bar and looking out over the crowd.

There turns out to be two men behind the bar, one a tall brunette that has a killer weight routine, if his arms are a good indicator, and a blonde that also looks fit and like he would be good in a fight. Jensen wonders why men this size are mixing drinks and not being used for security.That is until he notices the blonde, who is running the cash register, slipping cash into his front pocket.

Jensen sits at the bar for a while and as inconspicuously as possible, watches the three bartenders work. The brunette and the redhead mix drinks and ring up customers, but the blonde is the only one who continues to skim money from the till. After Jensen is sure it’s only him, he takes out his wallet and drops a few bills to cover the soda, before slipping off the barstool and heading to the back of the building.

Tucked back down the hallway to the bathrooms, there is a staff-only door. Jensen assumes it is either the employee break room or where they store extra bottles of alcohol for the bar. Turns out it is the latter when the door swings open and Jensen sees an obviously drunk girl slip out of the door and a burly guy tucking in his shirt. The man is either oblivious to an audience or he just doesn’t care, because he doesn’t close the door, just straightens his shirt, and smooths his hair back down. The man is pretty ordinary looking, the only thing standing out is the shirt that bears the marking of the Silver Dollar Saloon, which is the name of the bar. He even smirks at Jensen as he leaves the room and walks past him, smelling of sex and whiskey. Jensen returns the smirk, but not for the same reason.

The band has just finished a set and Rob is drinking seltzer water at the edge of the bar when Jensen decides he’s seen enough for the evening. He walks up to the other man and clamps him on the shoulder. Rob is startled at first, but upon recognizing the other man, he flings his arms around him. Jensen isn’t expecting the hug, but he returns it slapping the man’s back and shoving him away to get a look at him. “Well, fuck me, Jensen Ackles!” Rob snorts and hugs him again.

Jensen laughs, slinging his arm around Rob’s neck. “Well, you are my type, but I’m pretty sure I’m not your type. Besides, Ruth would filet me.”

Rob blushes, taking another drink of his water, and says, “Pretty sure you are everyone’s type. And she’d only filet you if you didn’t let her join in.”

“If I ever have the inclination to try playing for the other team, you tell Ruthie that she is a the top of my list.”

Rob tosses his head back in a laugh and whistles to the bass player and lead guitarist, “Hey fellas, look who I found in here.”

Richard Speight, Jr. turns around first and the next thing Jensen knows, the man is pumping his hand furiously. “Jensen Ackles, as I live and breathe,” Rich feigns being light-head after releasing his hand.

Billy Moran is the last one of the band to approach the trio, always a man of a few words he only says, “I thought you got out of the business.” The guitarist offers his hand to Jensen.

Jensen takes it, covering the hand with his other one, and says, “I did for an awhile, but I’ve been back at it for a few years. This is just temporary.”

“Well, we heard rumors that Alaina hired the best, figured it would be J.D. coming through those doors,” Rob finishes his water and checks his watch.

Jensen isn’t offended by the statement, Jeff is still the best in his book, “Sam is keeping him busy these days, so you got me.”

Jensen notices several of the employees of the bar taking notice of him and the friendly banter between him and the band, the three bartenders are no exception.

After Rob and the boys take the stage again, Jensen slides back onto another bar stool and this time the dark-haired male comes up to him. “Are you Jensen Ackles?” This bartender is Jensen’s type, his handsome face and a wide smile are extremely easy on the eyes and Jensen sighs inwardly that they are coworkers, making Mr. Tall, dark and handsome off-limits.

“You’ve heard of me?” Jensen is legitimately shocked and holds out a hand. 

“Tom Welling,” Tom takes the hand in his own large grip and his smile widens. “I worked in Vegas for a while, Alaina is an old friend. Said she needed help turning this place into a nice establishment, but as you can see, this crowd gives two shits about flair bartenders.”

Jensen is impressed, flair bartending is something of dying performance art, but several places still employ skilled, flair-tenders. Jensen always thought you wasted more alcohol flipping the bottles and shakers around in such a show, but the business side really isn't his specialty, just security. “Did the three of you come out together?” Jensen feels a deep sense of dread at having to break up the squad, but he has no room in his bar for thieves.

Tom shakes his head and picks up some empties from the countertop, “Dani and I are teams, Justin was already working here.” He nods in the direction of the other two, who are pouring drinks and taking orders. “No offense,” Tom sweeps his gaze up and down Jensen’s torso, which is not obscured by the bar, “I thought you’d be bigger.”

Jensen cackles, his head tipped back, and claps his hands. He and Tom are going to get along. “Well, I get the job done.” If there is a slight bit of innuendo in his reply, well he isn’t officially on the clock, yet.

Before Tom can respond, the red-head is sliding up to his side and smacking Tom with a bar rag, “Who’s your friend, Tommy?”

Tom wraps an arm around her shoulders and says, “Danneel, this is Jensen Ackles. Jensen? Dani.”

Danneel, to her credit, only gapes for a second and then offers her own small, perfectly manicured hand. Jensen returns his firm handshake and then she’s saying, “You are way too pretty to be a cooler.”

“Danneel!” Tom says, outraged that his best friend just said that out loud.

“What? He is,” Dani says and then pulls her hand away to squeeze the other man's cheeks, manipulating his mouth into a pucker. “Don’t worry, Tom, you are still pretty, too. Though I thought you’d be bigger,” she adds, cackling along with Tom. Jensen just smiles wryly. He may not be as big as Mr. All-American here, but he is not a small man by any stretch of the imagination. 

The blonde, also known as Justin, finally comes down to find out what the commotion is. “This is our new cooler, Jensen Ackles,” Danneel says.

If he recognizes the name, he doesn’t show it, deep brown eyes flickering up and down Jensen before he offers his hand. “Justin Hartley,” he says just as Jensen gives him a brief handshake. They are coworkers, at least until tomorrow.

“Pleasure, I’m sure, “ Jensen says, trying not to let his sarcasm seep into his voice. The man is attractive, has a nice smile and an incredible body, but Jensen is anything but flattered at the approving gazes being sent his way.

Tomorrow is going to be a long and interesting day, Jensen finishes his second coke of the evening and goes to retrieve his wallet. “Non-alcoholic beverages are on the house for employees,” Dani says from the other side of the bar with a smile. Jensen nods his thanks and puts the money for the drink in the full tip jar sitting on the bar. He hopes that Mr. Sticky fingers aren’t ripping Tom and Dani off like he is the Alaina.

With a two-fingered salute, he leaves a horde of customers and makes his way back up the stairs to Alaina’s office. The crowd is at a fever pitch and it is two-thirty on a weeknight, no sign of slowing down when he knocks on the door.

Alaina opens the door, she has two glasses when she pulls back the reinforced metal, gesturing the man inside before handing him the glass with two fingers of what he knows is costly, top shelf bourbon or scotch. He peers down at the proffered beverage but makes no move to take it. “Come on,” Alaina thrusts it into his hand, “I know you don’t drink on the job, I admire that. But you aren’t on the clock right now. Take the glass, have a drink, and tell me your thoughts.” She forces it into his hand and moves back behind the desk, putting her designer-clad feet up on the wood surface of the desktop.

Jensen sits, glass still in his hand, but doesn’t take a drink. “I’m assuming you have personnel files?”

The red-head removes her feet and stands, she unlocks the filing cabinet behind her before dropping a bundle of Manila folders down in front of him. “Knock yourself out. That is expensive scotch, please don’t waste it.”

Jensen sets the tumbler down and picks up the folder on top, thumbing the cover open and looking at the picture held in place a paper clip. He reads the basic information and lays the documents down in a pile.

He is halfway through the stack with two separate piles started, when he takes his first sip of the contents of the glass. It is high-end Scotch, probably single malt, and only burns a little as it slides down his throat. Alaina is eyeing him, silently, but with a curious expression.

Two fingers of scotch and thirty minutes later and he closes the last folder before putting it in a pile. Alaina stays silent as he opens the first folder in the smaller stack. “Ann Marie Warren, she is dealing drugs on the side.” He closes the file and picks up the next one, “Jessica Mays, she is giving sexual favors for cash in the bathroom,” Alaina raises her eyebrows, but still doesn’t speak.

Jensen continues through the pile, stopping to tell the owner what he saw her employees doing with his own eyes. “Justin Hartley, skimming money from the register.Matthew Blake, caught him doing the horizontal hokey pokey in the stock room,” he finishes without pomp and circumstance, shutting the last cover and putting it in his toss stack.

Alaina takes a drink of her own beverage and gathers her thoughts before she hides her smile behind her own glass. “You saw all of that in the two hours you were on the floor?” She is impressed, she doesn’t even try and conceal it.

“You hired me because I am the second-best cooler there is, but I learned from the best,” Jensen lifts his lowball glass to his lips, raising it towards her slightly and then downs the rest of the liquid, relishing the tingle it causes as it glides down his esophagus to his stomach.

The ginger mirrors his silent toast and takes another sip, “Okay, well done. I can’t wait to see what you can shake loose after a week.” He gets the feeling that she doesn’t just give out praise to people. 

Any of the worries that Jensen had about her not giving him complete autonomy to choose his personnel fades when she adds, “I’ll let you handle them tomorrow, it’s your play. I have you a room at the Holiday Inn down the street, so recommend that you get some sleep, you have a busy day tomorrow.”

Jensen takes that as his cue to leave and gets up from the chair, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s clean your bar up, Ms. Huffman.”

“Call me Alaina,” she calls out after him, “Oh, and Jensen?”

Jensen turns back to face her, raising his eyebrows in question. “Get some sleep.” He nods and closes the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning comes too quickly for Jensen’s exhausted body, the hotel sheets are a little scratchy as he burrows in deeper into the mattress, he is exhausted from the drive. Hell, he’s exhausted from the last five years, but he crawls out of bed anyway and works through his Tai Chi routine, calming his body down before he showers and gets dressed for the day. 

Once he leaves the room, he walks down to the lobby, grabs a cup of coffee and today’s newspaper, glancing at headlines and exiting the lobby through the revolving door. He heads left on the sidewalk, letting his boots carry farther away from the hotel, taking in the quietness of the sleepy forenoon town. 

Further down the street, he sees an older model Dodge Charger, it has rusted rocker panels and places that look like bon-do has been used to fill in the warped, dented frame. The whole thing is painted with a black satin finish, it has character. 

Jensen admires the old muscle car, only noticing the man with the thinning hair and off the rack suit after he starts to speak, “She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

Jensen takes in the hefty man before him, his polished shoes and the straining buttons on his oxford shirt that his tie can’t hide. “James Morrison,” he offers his hand while adding, “friends call me Jim.”

Jensen does a double take, “Seriously? Jim Morrison?”

The salesman doesn’t miss a beat and says, “Yeah, I know. My dad had a sense of humor at least.”

Jensen laughs along with the man, “Well, Jim? Jensen Ackles,” he takes the offered hand, Jim has a strong handshake. “She is a beaut, alright. What are you asking?”

Jim considers him for a moment, his faded jeans and work boots hardly look like he is rolling in cash. “Twelve hundred, she’s a good car.”

Jensen rubs his chin thoughtfully, considering the offer and then takes out his wallet, counting out the twelve crisp hundred dollar bills with a smile. 

Jim watches, trying to fight back the smile that is pulling up at the corner of his mouth and motions for the other man to follow him into the small office of the car lot. 

The room is a 12x12 space, barely big enough for a desk and a couple of chairs, but the air conditioner in the back window is doing its job, a welcomed respite from the warm spring sunshine. He stays standing, biceps folded across his chest, while Jim digs out the paperwork and then hands him the keys. 

“Haven’t seen you around these parts,” Jim says, following Jensen outside, where he opens the car door and sits on the vinyl, tuck and roll upholstery. 

“I’m just passing through. Got a gig over at the Silver Dollar for a little while.”

“That place is a real shithole,” Jim wipes his brow with a handkerchief that he pulls from the pocket of his jacket. “I heard they brought in a professional, but son, you are not what I pictured.”

Jensen grins, “What do you mean?” Not a bit of offense in his tone. 

Jim gives him a once over, “I just figured you be a little tougher, and a hell of a lot bigger.”

“You know, there is a lot of that going around.”

“Well, Jensen? Good luck to you. Alaina is good people, I hope it works out for you.” With that, Jensen starts up the engine, it coughs to life and then finally idles down to a smooth purr. It doesn’t sound like his Mustang, but it will serve his purpose. He thanks Jim and pulls out on the road, deeper into the town. 

Further down the street, there is auto parts store, a bank and a Mom and Pop Diner. Jensen sips his coffee and cruises leisurely down the pavement, taking in all of the sights that there are to offer. It really does seem like a nice town, it is a shame that all of the rift-raft ends up at the Dollar. 

  
  


*******

  
  


“What do you mean, I’m fired?” Justin’s voice echos off the wall of the otherwise quiet club, his face is red as he pushes a finger into Jensen’s chest. 

“I saw you taking money out of the cash register last night and put in your pocket. There is no place here for crooks, so you’re fired.” Jensen is calm, he keeps his cool remarkably well these days. 

“Alaina? Are you just going to let him do this?” He looks toward the owner, who is just sitting quietly, letting Jensen lead this meeting. 

“He says you’re gone, you stole from me, you’re banned from the premises.” She says it coolly, just reinforcing what Jensen has already said. 

“You‘ll be sorry,” Justin points one angry finger at Alaina, then towards Jensen, “And you. Mark my words.” He grabs his jacket from behind the bar and exits the bar. 

“Well that went well,” Jensen mumbles and turns his attentions to one of the table of bouncers before narrowing his gaze on one in particular. “Mr. Blake,” Jensen says, seeing the man swallow nervously. “You’re fired.”

The man is broader than Jensen, but no where near as tall, he stands up, red-faced, his posture screaming confrontation. Jensen sees Tom out of the corner of his eye stiffen up, his hand already closed up into a fist. 

“You can’t fire me, I was on my break,” the bouncer says, crossing is own arms over his body into a defensive stance. 

Jensen smiles at the man, “I don’t care, you're gone.” 

Matthew Blake obviously has more sense than his looks would suggest, he glances over at Alaina, who is still just watching Jensen deal with the situation. Seeing no help there, he walks around the table, making it at point to bump into Jensen, petulantly on his way out the door. Once the door closes the sunlight out of the room, Jensen lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

The rest of the axed employees go without confrontation and then it is Alaina’s turn to address the staff. Jensen surrenders the floor to her, leans up against the bar and lets her speak. 

“Now that that’s out of the way,” the red-head says with a chuckle, one that her employees nervously copy, “You’ve all been properly introduced, so the only thing I have to add is this: We will be closing down in three weeks time for remodeling, I want this bar cleaned up and respectable by then. Jensen is in charge, what he says goes, so if you have any issues, you take it up with him. Now, lets get this place opened.”

The soft murmurs of the workers’ agreements is the only response, mixed in with the chair legs scraping across the floor and footsteps heading off to make preparations to open. 

Jensen takes a minute to smile at Alaina before she escapes back up stairs to the sanctuary of her office and Jensen prepares himself to talk to the bouncers who are milling around at the door. 

Firing Matthew Blake had left Jensen with only six men to use as security and normally that would not cut it, he needs two men at the door at all times, leaving only four to work the crowd plus himself. Beggars can’t be choosers, though and Jensen mentally prepares himself to make the speech that he has heard Jeff deliver plenty of times. 

“Okay guys, here’s the deal,” he meets each man’s eyes, “We don’t get angry. I don’t care what they are doing or what they say about your mom or girlfriend, you stay calm. People who let their tempers get to them are dangerous and there is no place on my team for that.” Each man nods his understanding and Jensen continues. “Anyone causing trouble will be asked to leave, don’t let it come to a physical altercation if you can help it. Violence is our last resort. If anyone can’t handle that, then you’re gone. I can’t have my team losing it’s cool. Understood?”

One of the taller guys, who has curly brown hair and surprisingly soft spoken demeanor raises his hand. Jensen remembers his name from his file and says with a roll of his eyes, “What is it Mr. Manns?” 

If the man notices Jensen’s eye roll, he ignores it. “What if they take a swing at us?” 

“Our goal is to make sure that it doesn’t come to that, but this is a bar, so it will happen. If it does, you defend yourself, but in the least violent way possible. I don’t want a full on wrestling match. You work in teams, if someone takes a swing at you, it’s your partner’s job to help neutralize the threat, efficiently. “

That seems to appease the man for the moment and so Jensen moves on. “Jason,” he says to the man he was just talking to, “I need you and Todd,” he motions to one of the other men who is roughly the same size as Jensen, “at the door tonight. You’ll keep count. We need to get the clientele used to not exceeding fire capacity. Having too many people inside not only is a fire hazard, it’s dangerous for the team.” 

Todd and Jason nod, demonstrating their agreement; Jensen then moves on to the remaining four men. He ends up pairing Matt Cohen and Gil McKinney together, both are tall and well-muscled, if a tad small, but Jensen thinks they can probably handle themselves. That leaves Sterling Brown and Ty Olsen to be the other team. Jensen is relying on his own abilities to keep any altercations from spinning out of control just as much as his faith in his men.

The next four hours pass quickly, there are only a few skirmishes, where customers are asked to leave and have to be physically removed, but all in all, Jensen is proud of his team of bouncers and their ability to keep their cool. 

Jensen is waiting outside the bathroom to ask the couple who just decided that it was a no tell motel to vacate the premises when he sees Tom slip into the small hallway that leads to the facilities and store room. He can see the apprehension and concern lacing the other man’s face and the tension in his broad shoulders. 

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but I just saw Justin and a couple of others head up to Alaina’s office.” He says it calmly, but Jensen can hear the panic in the bartender’s voice. 

Jensen sighs, deciding he will deal with Casa Nova and his guest later and hastily vacates the corridor and up the stairs to his boss’ office, taking the steps two at a time before knocking on the door. 

The door opens and he sees Alaina seated at her desk, looking rattled, but otherwise okay, Justin is standing next her, leering at him. “What’s going on?” Jensen directs his question at the seated red-head and not the other two men with whom he’s not familiar with. 

“There has been a mistake and we are rectifying it,” Justin answers. 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jensen dismisses the disgruntled former employee and directs his attention back to Alaina. “Are you okay?” Jensen asks her and she nods her head in reply. 

“She’s fine,” Justin says and then smugly adds, “we are just clearing up this huge misunderstanding. See, I’m staying and you are leaving.” 

Jensen takes a moment to take in the other two men, both are attractive and fit men roughly Jensen’s age; one is a tall, built black man, a goatee, neatly trimmed on smooth, dark skin and the other is a man around Jensen’s size with sandy brown hair that is spiked up on top. Throw in Justin and it’s three against one, Jensen has beaten tougher odds. 

“See Mr. Ackles, Mr. Hartley here is Mr. Pileggi’s nephew and all of the alcohol that is served here at the Dollar is supplied by Mr. Pileggi. So Justin stays and you can see your way out. Or,” The the black man smiles, showing a row of perfect, white teeth, ”We can show you the way out.”

Jensen smiles coolly, looking back to Alaina, who looks mildly frightened, but determined. “Unless Ms. Huffman tells me to leave, then I’m afraid you boys made the trip out here for nothing.” This isn’t the first time that a group of name dropping, meat heads have tried to strong arm him into submission. 

“The hard way it is,” the other man speaks for the first time, the contempt in his voice matches the scowl on his face. “I think I can take you, Ackles, you aren’t that big,” the man lunges and Jensen dunks out of his way, easily shoving him againt the wall as hard as he can, the drywall denting in as the man’s head hits it, hard. He drops unceremoniously on the ground like a sack of potatoes. 

The black man immediately drops down into a fighting stance, large hands coming up like a boxer’s fists, edging his way closer to the bouncer. Jensen mirrors his posture, leaving his hands open instead of closed, he won’t throw a punch unless he has to. 

The other man is obviously a more skilled fighter than his companion, taking a cursory swing at Jensen before pulling back, it is evident that he is looking for weaknesses. They dance around each other, Jensen bobbing and weaving, his concentration is split on the man who is still lying unconscious on the floor and Justin, who looks content to just watch the melee. 

Jensen’s opponent swings wide and he sees his opening, delivering an uppercut to the man’s kidneys, feeling the flesh give under his powerful jab and then follows through with a right hook, the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage filling the air as his hand connects. 

The punch doesn’t detour the other man as he delivers a practiced and precise kick to Jensen’s thigh, the force nearly taking him down in the process. Jensen falls with the collision, allowing momentum to flip him over before he sweeps his leg out to topple his challenger. 

Seeing that this isn’t going the way that he predicted, Justin pulls out a knife from his belt and advances on the men, the momentary distraction enough to allow the other man to land a solid jab against Jensen’s temple, dazing him for a second. Jensen reels around in response and feels a strong bicep close around his throat. 

Jensen kicks back at the knee of his attacker, arms pulling at the arm that is cutting off his airway and Justin slashes at him with the sharp metal of his weapon. The bouncer’s boot connects with his foe’s knee hard, able to turn his body enough that the blade only barely grazes his side, the white hot pain lighting up his abdomen at the bottom of his rib cage. 

Jensen braces himself, blocking out the stinging of his wound to push backwards and slamming into the metal of the door. The door gives, crashing the pair out onto the stairs, forcing his assaulter’s hold to loosen. Jensen whirls and delivers a loaded punch to the man beneath him, the screams of the patrons of the bars filling his ears. 

It takes probably only seconds, he delivers another loaded punch and the other man finally goes down, rolling the rest of the way down the steps. Jensen turns just in time to deliver a roundhouse kick to Justin’s jaw, sending him crashing back into the office. 

Sterling and Ty are ascending the steps in a flash, grabbing at the incapcitated men, while Jensen looks down, the blood already soaking through his t-shirt, making the black fabric even darker as he wills his racing heart rate and the burn in his side to abate. 

Matt hoists the man, who has regained consciousness but is still bewildered, up off the floor, his head alreading swelling around what is probably going to be a hell of a goose egg. Gil clears the top steps to take in the scene, all three perpetrators neutralized and wide eyes turn back to Jensen. The bouncer looks extremely pale, so he takes a hold of his shirt, not heeding to Jensen’s protests. 

The gash is not really that deep, but it is long and gnarly-looking and Jensen feels slightly light-headed already from the blood loss. “M’fine,” Jensen shoves at the other man’s hands, but even Jensen knows when his A+ triage and medical training isn’t going to cut it.

  
  


*******

  
  


The night has been shockingly quiet for the ER, only a couple of bouts of the flu that has been surprisingly nasty this year and a colicky baby that also had a mild ear infection. Dr. Jared Padalecki is getting ready to end his shift when Samantha Ferris, one of the RN’s on staff, finds him in the breakroom. 

“Got four guys from the Silver Dollar in. Bar fight, one needs some staples from what looks like a knife wound. He’s pretty tight-lipped about how he got it, though the man is carrying around his medical records.” Sam is normally no nonsense, a real straight shooter, but even she looks taken aback. 

“What about the other guys?” Jared asks, dumping his lukewarm coffee cup into the trash and getting up, straightening his lab coat over his scrub top. 

“One has a broken nose, one has a mild concussion and the third has a broken jaw. The broken jaw is Justin.” Sam says, letting Jared know that his cousin was involved. 

Jared hisses, Justin and him have never gotten along, the older man always tormenting Jared until Jared had towered over the other man. Then he had taken to verbal abuse, attacking his sexuality, then the loss of his parents when Jared was fourteen. Which landed him in the care of his Uncle Mitch Pileggi, who owned the Kansas Hearld and most of the rest of the town this side of the Missouri River. 

Jared’s uncle had sent him to Medical School on his dime, but to say that he had been any kind of guardian was a real laugh riot to Jared. In fact, Jared has been trying to get out of this town for several years, hating his family and the fear that the Pileggi tribe evokes in the citizens. 

The look on Jared’s face must say it all, because Sam pats his arm, “Dr. Tal is taking care of Justin, she says you owe her dinner.”

Jared breathes a sigh of relief at that, “You tell her anywhere she wants to go.” Alona Tal and Jared have been friends since he moved back home from Kansas State for his residency, at one time the other doctor had flirted mercilessly with Jared until he had broken the news that he was very, very gay. Now, she is the closest thing to a best friend he has ever had. 

Jared isn’t sure what he is expecting when he walks down the hall and into the trauma bay, but he is one-hundred percent sure it was not this. The man seated on the exam table is attractive, and not the passable, average variety of hot either, no, this guy is smoking. He has the greenest eyes, framed by the longest lashes the other man has ever seen on a man; there are delicate freckles sprinkled over a small, straight nose and defined cheekbones. It all sits on top of pink, plush lips, accentuated by two small dimples that stand out in what looks like two days worth of stubble. 

Jared hasn’t even taken in the man’s torso, that is long, lean and cut by defined muscles. His biceps are large, extending from broad, rippling shoulders and Jared nearly swallows his tongue.

“Mr. Ackles, I’m Dr. Padalecki,” Jared regains some of his composure and takes a look at the lengthy, ugly gash that extends up Jensen’s left side, just under his arm. “Looks like a knife wound,” Jared presses two gloved fingers next to the injury, careful not to press too hard. “How did that happen?” 

“Natural causes,” Jensen smirks, handing over the thick file that is on the table next to his leg. 

The doctor flips open the cover of the thick stack of papers and thumbs through. There are a myriad of injuries and trauma related damages listed in the file as Jared scans the pages, taking note of several notations of severe lacerations and even a couple of gunshot wounds. “Says you’re a bouncer, “ Jared says looking down at the man, who clearly doesn’t look like he is in excruciating pain. 

“Over at the Silver Dollar,” Jensen smirks again and Jared thinks this guy must be insane. Hot, but crazy.

“Nice place,” the young doctor says sarcastically, looking further into the file, “they send a lot of business my way.”

The other man smiles brighter, “I’m hoping to change all of that.”

“All by yourself?” Jared says and puts the file down, picking up a syringe off of the tray of medical appliances that Sam already has laid out. “Well, Mr. Ackles, you can add nine staples to your dossier of thirty-one broken bones, two bullet wounds, nine puncture wounds and four titanium screws. That’s an estimate of course. I’ll give you a local.”

“No thank you,” Jensen says and Jared gives him another once over. 

“Do you enjoy pain?” Jared asks, trying to determine if his patient is sane or not. 

“Pain doesn't hurt,” Jensen looks up at him from under those crimally long eyelashes, something smoldering there behind those intelligent jade irises. 

“Most of my patients would disagree,” Jared breaks his intense gaze and retrieves the stapler. “Okay.” The doctor raises up Jensen’s left arm and as gently as possible, holds the skin together and presses the trigger of the appliance as delicately as possible. The loud click echoes in the sterile room and Jared winces harder than his patient when the metal staple perforates the skin and binds it together. Jensen just blows out a breath, but doesn’t really make a sound. 

”You always carry your medical records with you?”

”Saves time, ” Jensen exhales sharply. 

“Your file says you have a degree from Southern California, what in?” Jared asks, trying to distract the man from the next clack of the device as his skin is tugged together with the shiny closures.

”History, ” Jensen says slightly wincing from the sound of the apparatus. 

Jared was not expecting that answer, “Any particular era?”

“All, but mostly early industrial up to mid-seventies,” Jensen breathes out around another staple. 

“Vietnam,” Jared tries to keep the disdain out of his voice; he loathes violence in any form, but especially when it's unnecessary. 

“More Civil Rights focused,” Jensen is close enough to the doctor to smell aftershave and shampoo on the man, taking in the way his biceps strain against the white fabric of his coat. The man’s eyes are a collision of the color spectrum, blue and green wars with a hint of brown and Jensen thinks he could fall into those eyes. 

Those kaleidoscope orbs focus on his, “How does a guy like you end up a bouncer?” Jared says, once again taken in by the intelligence and compassion staring back at him. 

Jensen refuses to break his stare, just unconsciously licks his lips and replies, “Just lucky, I guess.” 

Jared finishes the last one and steps away to allow the other man to put his arm down, noticing the line of stitches on his bicep. The wound is knitting back together well, and he touches Jensen’s arm to inspect the injury. “Nice work. Good, clean stitches,” the doctor says. 

“Thank you,” Jensen looks up again, biting his lip to keep from smiling. 

Jared can only laugh, “Do you ever win a fight?” 

The other man grows somber all of a sudden, “No one ever  _ wins  _ a fight,” he says softly. 

_ Who the hell is this guy,  _ Jared thinks to himself, placing a bandage over the area, then moves away, throwing gauze in the biohazard bin. “Well, there you are.”

Jensen hops down to retrieve his shirt, turning around to look at the handsome doctor, “So listen, if you want to come down to the Dollar, I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee. You know, if you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jared tries to play it cool, but he knows he is failing, miserably. “You know?”

Jensen pulls his shirt on, careful to not stretch too far, it would suck to tear his staples out. He raises his eyebrows in askance. 

“For that line of work, I thought you’d be bigger,” the doctor says, giving him a once over that Jared will swear is completely professional. 

Jensen tosses his head back and cackles, his eyes crinkle as all of his perfect teeth show, delight evident on his face, “Gee, I have never heard that before.”

  
  


*******

  
  
  


Alona is standing at the nurse’s station when Jared leads Jensen out of the triage room, she has a huge smile on her face as she watches the shorter of the pair walk out of the double doors that lead to the exit of the hospital. Jared tries to play it nonchalantly as he lays the folder with Jensen’s treatment information inside the ”out” pile. 

“Holy shit,” the blonde says, after Jensen has disappeared from sight. “I had to deal with your whiny cousin while you got to play doctor with that?”

“And, I will forever be in your gratitude,” Jared’s grin splits his face wide open as he looks down at her. “Holy shit,” he echoes her early sentiments, shaking off the interaction.

“So, what’s his story?” Alona bumps his arm, clearly wanting all of the details. 

“He’s a bouncer, what else is there to say?” Jared goes back to his charts. 

“Well, word on the street is that he plays for your team,” Alona nudges him again. 

“Word on the street, huh?” The offer to buy him coffee and his appraising glances had alerted Jared to that fact already. 

“Uh-huh,” she says with a knowing smirk. “I also heard that those other three guys, your cousin included? That he single-handedly put them here.” 

“Alona?” Jared says, trying to connect the smart, gentle eyes of the man he just treated to someone capable of that kind of brutality. “This is hardly professional behavior,” he chastises. 

“He asked you out, didn’t he?” She says, eyes getting bright and face practically glowing. “What did you say?”

“He didn’t ask me out, just said that if I was ever in the neighborhood, he’d buy me a cup of coffee, that’s hardly asking me out.” Jared still can’t help the smile that pulls at his mouth. There is still the fact that Jensen makes a living doing something that Jared abhors, the young doctor isn’t sure that he can get past that. He does have to concede that Jensen looks like he is a hell of a lot of fun and whether or not they mesh on a serious, spiritual level, he is willing to have some fun with the man. 

  
  


*******

  
  


Jensen wakes up the next morning sore, but he’s alive and that's what counts. Especially in this line of work. He walks down stairs and picks up the paper along with a complimentary cup of coffee and heads down the sidewalk again. 

He really isn't interested in hanging out in this town for long, but in lieu of last night's events and the chance meeting with that gorgeous doctor who patched him up, Jensen thinks it might be wise to look for other lodging. 

He scans the classified ads, thinking that he will have more luck looking online, when one listing sticks out. In Jensen’s experience, words like  _ quiet, affordable, _ and  _ secluded,  _ means that it is probably small, away from the population and not exactly bursting with amenities; but for Jensen that sounds pretty perfect right now. 

He gets in his car and looks up the directions, which do take him a little ways out of town, but the country-side is beautiful so even if it is a bust, he enjoys the drive. 

The turnoff that his phone tells him to take leads him to a gravel drive, there are wildflowers and dandelions growing on both sides of the long road, overgrowth and daisies left to its own devices. Jensen spots a clearing to his right that looks like a good-sized creek, probably a tributary from the Missouri River. He follows the path a good distance, the overgrowth giving way to trees that end in a quaint little farm house, with a huge barn out back. Jensen parks his car and sees an older man in overalls coming out of the barn. 

As soon as the bouncer gets out of the car, he turns around and sees a house setting a few hundred yards away, on the other side of the creek. It is huge, large gables and pitches created with brick and granite, the shiny paint of the cars outside glinting even from this distance. There is an enormous fountain in the middle of the circular driveway in front of the massive structure. By the time Jensen turns back around, the man is almost to him. 

“Can I help you?” the man asks, his snap back cap pulled low over his eyes, there is gray mixed in with the brown of his full beard, but his chocolate eyes look friendly and warm, even if a bit cautious. 

Jensen hands him the paper, the ad for the room in plain sight, “I’m here to look at the apartment, is it still available?” 

The man gives him a once over, taking in the beat up car and his lace-up work boots, before handing him the paper back. He removes his hat, scratching hair that is also peppered with gray before replacing his headwear. “It’s still available, not sure it’s what you're looking for.”

Jensen offers his hand, “I’m Jensen Ackles, I’d like to take a took, if you don’t mind, sir.”

The man looks warily at his hand before taking it, “Jim Beaver, and boy? Calling me sir is like putting an elevator in an outhouse, there just ain’t no need in it.”

Jensen shakes the man's hand, laughing softly at Jim’s colloquialism before taking the newspaper back. He folds the sheaf of paper up and sticks it in his back pocket. “It’s this way,” Jim says and leads him in the direction of the barn. 

Around the back of the sturdy, well maintained structure, there is a set of steps that lead up to a loft, Jim opens the door and leads Jensen inside. The floors are all wooden and from the looks of it, old, but well taken care of. There is a small kitchenette with a very old refrigerator, an even older looking stove and table that is small, but solid wood, Jensen can tell. The living area is also on the small side, but there is a stone fireplace and two soft looking, mismatched chairs. Two steps up leads to a bed, dresser and nightstand that have a railing separating them from the rest of the room. Jim opens a small door next to the stairs and Jensen sticks his head inside. There is a shower, pedestal sink and commode in the small space, and an antique looking mirror on the wall. 

The bed is large, looks to be handmade and Jensen thinks he’s in love. “The water heater is small and there is no cable or internet, but the fireplace and small window unit in the bedroom keep it comfortable.” Jim is explaining the amenities to him when Jensen goes into the living room and opens the large doors that give him a breath-taking view of the creek and the mansion across the way. “There used to be a better view, until that prick built that eye sore over there.”

“I’ll take it,” Jensen doesn’t need to hear anything else. 

“You got a job around these parts?” Jim asks, eyeing the younger man suspiciously. 

“Yeah, over at the Silver Dollar. I’m the new cooler,” Jensen says. “Is that a problem?”

Jim rubs his chin, “No, not a problem at all. You’re just the first person that I’ve had interested in the place that actually wants to live in it. Everyone else complains about how small it is or that there is no fiber optic bullshit or how far it is from Starbucks.” 

Jensen laughs, “Well, sir, I don’t need much. I’ll probably only be here a few months, until I get the Dollar straightened up. But I think it is pretty perfect if you ask me. I can pay you the first three months in advance if you need me to.” 

“No need for that, if you stop calling me sir, that is.” Jim holds out his hand. 

Jensen laughs, takes his hand and says, “You’ve got yourself a deal, Jim.”

“You aren’t going to be throwing wild parties and having a bunch of scantily clad, loose women up here, are you?” Jim asks as they descend the stairs. 

Jensen follows the man’s gaze, where there is a herd of nearly naked women playing with a water hose in the yard of his wealthy neighbors. Jensen shakes his head, “No, sir,” he ignores the chastising look of the older man and decides that he might as well tell the old man now, in case he is a bigot. Better to look for another place now before he ends up homeless. “I pretty well steer clear of females of the naked and all other varieties, if you get my drift. That isn’t gonna be a problem is it?”

Jim stares him straight in the eyes, like he is considering the words before saying, “Boy, I don’t care where you stick your dick as long as I don’t have to see it or you don’t try and stick it in me.”

Jim is dead serious, but Jensen can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest, “Fair enough. Deal.” Jensen just met the man, but he already knows that he and Jim are going to get along famously. 

Giggles from the happenings across the way drift over to the pair as they stand out in front of the modest house that Jim calls home. “Who lives there?” Jensen says, noticing for the third time how much disgust his new landlord seems to have for the occupants of the place. 

“That’s that asshole, Mitch Pileggi, dick thinks he owns this town,” Jim doesn’t mince words. 

“As in the paper, Mitch Pileggi?” Jensen did a little digging last night after the altercation at the bar. 

“Pileggi has a hand in every cookie jar this side of the River. He has been waiting for me to die for ten years so he can take my land, like he needs the extra space,” the old man doesn’t sound bitter, just resigned. Jensen feels an overwhelming urge to protect the man standing next to him. He reminds him a lot of J.D., who Jensen suddenly misses like a limb. Jensen makes a mental note to call the man later to check-in.

  
  
  



End file.
